Hello all
What's that you say? It's the moment you've all been waiting for! I present to you the first chapter of the new Sing the Bells.Six pages in Microsoft Word with a total of 2907 words (much longer than the original; almost double). Not a lot but it's the first for much more to come.
If you're interested in the original Sing the Bells intro, you can find the link on my profile.
For those that don't know, StB is a re-telling of Disney's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" with Bleach characters. Please be mindful of that as you read.
There's a very important poll on my profile related to this fic! It has to do with the pairings! Please go answer it!
Overall Warnings: AU, OOCness, eventual yaoi, references to the Christian religion, language, violence, abuse, and character death.
General Warnings (I'll be giving these for every chapter): character death (very minor) and references to Christian religion (and Aizen being an ass, if you want to count that, too)
Disclaimer: I do not own or have any rights to Bleach or Disney.
Sing the Bells
Introduction: When Our Tale Was Begun
'Now here is a riddle to guess if you can,'
Sing the bells of Notre Dame
'Who is the monster and who is the man?'
Sing the bells of Notre Dame
The sun had slowly begun its ascent into the wakening sky over the city of Paris, signaling the start of another new day for the townsfolk who resided below. Pale golden light filtered down through the faded blues of the horizon, unhindered by a single cloud, to gently drape on the rugged town buildings. Radiant gold danced along the stone houses and shops with their thatched roofs that jutted into the air, reaching for the azure blanket that lay overhead. Even in such early hours the morning sky shifted to such a clear and glittering blue as the sun grew brighter and bolder. And surely enough, the city began to show signs of life.
The people of Paris moved about with care within their homes and along the cobblestone roadways, their silhouettes playing just a few steps behind them, so as not to wake their still slumbering family and neighbors. Each person went about their business – after all, there was a market to settle, shops to open.
Tents and stalls easily rose in the one of the city's center squares that would soon be filled with bustling energy and the citizens of Paris. Warm aromas wafted through the streets, the promise of fresh bread baked daily by the humble bakerman called to the sleeping. Crisp and pungent were the scents of this morning's market; fishermen proudly presented their catch on ice, hauled in while the sun still slept, scales sparkling in the early light; alongside stood the butcher's stand with his finer meats and sausages, fragrant cheeses among the selection; and the farmers with their simple yet necessary crops, bright and luscious with color, and a couple dozens of eggs and jugs of milk to sell. Shops opened offering homegoods and textiles. All was ready.
And that morning, as it was every morning, the iron bells of the Notre Dame cathedral rang through the air to announce the official beginning of the new day. Bells as soft as a psalm, sighing like a chime in the wind, drifted lightly on the wind, the gentle song a prelude to something much bigger. And louder, as it was, when the toll of thunderous bells shook the air with strong crescendos to give the hour. Such was the melody of the people of Paris. Each and every day the music guided them through their lives, ingrained into their heart and minds, as they went through morning, noon, and night.
It could even be said that the city's very soul was the resounding toll of the bells of Notre Dame.
The many streets of Paris were flowing with men and women, making their daily stops at the shops and market, when one head of bright red hair came bursting through the crowd.
"Jinta!"
The redhead scowled at the call behind him. He was hoping he could somehow ditch the girl before they reached the town square. He really didn't want to spend the entire day watching his annoying little sister. Plus, she knew how to take care of herself. Why did she need to follow him everywhere?
"Jinta, wait!"
But he guessed it wasn't his day. Much to his dislike, Jinta came to a stop with a huff, his scowl still present as he watched the young girl trailing behind. The redhead crossed his arms waiting for his sister to catch her breath when she finally did reach him, panting a little and a slight flush tinting her cheeks. He eyed her carefully when dark purple orbs pinned him from underneath black bangs.
"That wasn't fair, Jinta. I'm telling Mr. Tessai," the girl stated, arms draping at her sides. A single red brow twitched at the mention of the name; Jinta had a secret fear of the giant-of-a-man, but Ururu had somehow found out and never spared a chance to use it.
"So, what?" He scoffed, playing it off as nothing. "I stopped, didn't I?" Jinta brought up his fists and dug his knuckles along the girl's temples, twisting roughly. A chorus of "ows" and "it hurts" sounded from his victim while he spoke. "And how come it took you so long, huh? You didn't stop somewhere, did you? Trying to put all the blame on me?"
"No, the girl cried between her brother's questions, "You were running too fast!" Only after her protests grew louder did he stop torturing Ururu.
"Now, listen here," Jinta said, removing his fists. "I'm the oldest and what I say goes, and what I say is we have some fun."
"But Jinta, Mr. Urahara and Mr. Tessai sent us on errands in the market," watery purple orbs questioned.
"What did I just say?" the redhead exclaimed, tugging harshly on Ururu's bangs. Frowning, he said with a huff, "We can still do Mr. Urahara's errands and play around a bit in the square." The young girl's eyes seemed to widen at the prospect, dashing after her brother when he took off again, smiles lighting their faces at the different sights and sounds of the town market place that stimulated their senses. On this morning, the children's gazes honed in on a wooden card elaborately dressed with a set of brightly colored curtains as they quickly joined the small crowd gathered round it. Pretty little streamers draped along the sides and floated in the air while shards of rainbow glass hung from the cart, bright sparks of light cast on the cobblestone streets, twisting and tinkling in the lightest of morning breezes.
A gypsy man stood behind his makeshift stage, his own outfit of violet and fuchsia matching the vivid colors of the decorations draped around his carefully crafted cart. A single gold hoop glittered in his ear. Despite the mask and hat that concealed his features, ochre eyes flashed in amusement at the growing young audience and his smile steadily grew into a wide piano-tooth grin. As if on cue, the glorious sounds of the Notre Dame cathedral rang another tune for all of Paris to hear just as the gypsy began to speak.
"Listen, they're beautiful, no? So many colors of sound, so many changing moods. But you know . . ." He paused as he leaned down close to the children gathered round the colorful cart. "They don't ring all by themselves."
"They don't?" The gypsy's eyes flicked to the source of the voice – a young girl with black hair tied into two loose pigtails parted just so to reveal her big violet eyes. The red-haired boy beside her gave the girl a quick jab with his elbow. She hissed under her breath, "Ow! Jinta!"
"Now, now," the gypsy held up his hand in a placating gesture. Righting himself back to his full height, the gypsy lifted back one of the darker curtains behind him to reveal Notre Dame herself, pointing to the looming cathedral. "Up there, high, high, in the dark bell tower, lives the mysterious bell ringer." He let the curtain drop as he turned back to the children, whose curiosity had been roused at the mention of the new character.
"Who is he?"
"How'd he get up there?"
"Does he always stay in the tower?"
"Why doesn't he come down?"
"Why would anyone want to live up there?"
The questions seemed to have no end.
"Hush!" The gypsy spoke, rapping lightly on the edge of his stage. He shook his head and tsked at the children's antics, but a mischievous smile soon made its home on his face as he said, "No fear, little ones, I will tell you. It is a tale. A tale of a man and a monster!"
Dark was the harsh winter's night as the bitter wind blew through the streets of Paris. Powdery snow lifted in the eerie silence, drifting on the constant gusts of air, and blanketed all it touched in a cruel and shocking white. Even down in the canals the light waves of the Seine made no noise as they brushed along the walls of the waterways. Moving slowly among these shadows in hopes of remaining hidden, four figures huddled together in a small boat as they silently slid under the docks near Notre Dame. Fear easily crept into their hearts; they were gypsies, and that simple fact made their lives no easy task. Hunted ruthlessly by the Palace of Justice, there was no safe place for them in Paris, but they needed a haven, a home, and there was no other option. The hooded boatman steered their vessel carefully across the dark waters, watching and listening for a sign anything was amiss. For a gypsy to enter Paris was against the law; one wrong move and they'd be dead.
The screeching cry of a baby shattered the slices of the night air. The boatman whipped around to glare at his passengers. Two men and a woman with panic-filled eyes stared down at the infant resting in the female's arms, squirming and wailing in its blankets. The woman was doing her best to calm the babe and rocked it in her arms. One man hovered close, his hand gently squeezing her shoulder in warning. The other man wasn't so kind.
He wore a snarl. "Shut it up, will you! We'll be spotted!" he whispered harshly.
The woman only nodded, tucking the infant closer to her chest. "Hush, little one," she murmured, giving the child a finger to suck on. The baby soon fell quiet once again listening to the woman's soothing voice and nuzzled into her warmth. The gypsies all waited with bated breath as they were plunged into silence, waiting for any sign they'd been heard. When all seemed safe, the boatman continued their journey as the boat rocked steadily in the quiet water until it was securely docked.
"Four gilders for safe passage into Paris," the hooded boatman said once the gypsies had stepped out on to the street. But even as one man reached for his satchel to hand over the payment, an arrow whistled through the air and imbedded itself within the boatman's oar. Eyes wide in shock and ears greeted with the sounds of clinking armor echoing through the streets, the gypsies turned to see Parisian soldiers rushing at them with weapons drawn – it was a trap! Tension filled the air as several of the soldiers surrounded the small band of gypsies, their swords glinting dangerously in the pale moonlight. At the sound of horse hooves clacking against the cobblestone streets the gypsies' hearts plummeted; through the drifting snow they gazed up in fear and alarm at a figure riding a massive black stallion approaching with deadly grace. A man whose clutches were iron as much as the bells of Notre Dame.
"Judge Sousuke Aizen!"
Judge Sousuke Aizen, dressed in the black robes of the highest city officials, a red ribbon fluttering from his hat, stared down at the gypsies with distaste. Despite his fine features, a considerably handsome appearance, his cold and hollow brown eyes gave away his true nature. Judge Aizen longed to purge the world of vice and sin as one of the justice ministers, starting with the disgraceful race of gypsies; this man saw corruption everywhere, but he never in mission did he stop to think it could come from within. His lips curled back with the small frown that crossed his face, the only expression that crossed his face as his tall shadow loomed over the trembling people below him.
"Bring these gypsy vermin to the Palace of Justice," Aizen ordered the soldiers. Without a moment of hesitation, the boatman and male gypsies were pulled away, cold iron shackles around their wrists and their freedom gone, and led off leaving the woman alone to clutch her bundle against her chest. She didn't go unnoticed.
"You there! What are you hiding?" a soldier called out, attempting to grab her and snatch the bundle.
"Stolen goods, no doubt," Aizen stated. "Take them from her."
She ran.
Through the narrow streets she went, desperation guiding her footsteps, kicking the powdery snow into the air around her. Close behind, Judge Aizen gave chase on horseback and gained distance with every stride. The winter air nipped at the woman's skin, the snow biting her bare feet as she raced past storefronts, closed to an outcast like her. She pleaded silently to the angels above for safety and protection and her gasping breaths punctuated every thought. Then a flicker of hope appeared in the gypsy woman's vision: the towering silhouette of Notre Dame, there, between two houses. She jumped the metal gate that blocked her path, trusting that the obstacle would be enough to slow Judge Aizen. Her pursuer slid to a stop and frowned as watched the woman run through the empty square towards the great cathedral.
The gypsy rushed up the steps to the church's heavy wooden doors, her pounding rattling their old hinges and echoed the rapid beating of her heart.
"Sanctuary! Please give us sanctuary!" she cried out.
But the doors did not open and left the poor woman to the shadows of the cold night. Pure terror seized her whole being as she turned to face Aizen, the judge now upon her at the stone steps and ripping the covered bundle from her arms. However, the woman refused to let go in the struggle and so Aizen kicked her to pry the cloth from her hold, sending her crashing to the unforgiving cathedral steps. A terrible crack rang throughout the air as her head connected with harsh stone, and the she was still.
The bundle now in Aizen's arms began to cry. "A baby?" he asked aloud, pushing back the cloth to uncover the infant. The small face that peered back at him was as white as the snow that covered the streets. And the eyes! Eyes like golden fire caught in a sea of black burned his very soul. Aizen let out a strangled gasp, quickly wrapping the child – no: "A monster!"
Cold brown eyes flickered about, searching for a solution when they came upon a well. Without another thought, Aizen guided his horse to the well and lifted the infant above the deep and freezing waters. He was about to drop it when –
"Stop!" cried the archdeacon.
Aizen turned, arm still stretched over the watery grave, to see Notre Dame's archdeacon descend the steps. He wore a stony expression with piercing slate gray eyes.
"This is an unholy demon," Aizen stated, gesturing with the babe, as if the task were nothing, "I'm sending it back to hell where it belongs."
The archdeacon's face betrayed no emotion as he knelt to gather the gypsy woman's body in his arms, sweeping his robes out of the way. He chose his words carefully. "Here you have spilt innocent blood on the steps of Notre Dame," he said, his voice a quiet rumble but in no way soft or gentle.
"I am guiltless – she ran, I pursued," Aizen explained. The archdeacon's eyes narrowed at the answer.
"And now you would add this child's blood to your guilt?"
"My conscience is clear!" snapped Aizen. Whether aware of his actions or not, the judge brought the baby back to the safety of his arms as he rode closer to the raven-haired minister.
"You can lie to yourself and your minions; you can claim that you haven't a qualm. But you never can run from nor hide what you've done from the eyes." The archdeacon lifted a hand and pointed to the cathedral above him. "The very eyes of Notre Dame!" Aizen's gaze rose to the countless statues of saints and angels carved into the walls of Notre Dame. Stone eyes seemed to capture each and every last moment in their gaze, watching the actions that transpired below. His own eyes widened, meeting the same stone eyes of the Madonna and Child, staring down in anger and shame at his disgraceful actions before the Lord. His breath caught in his throat as Aizen felt a twinge of fear for his immortal soul.
"What must I do?" he asked the archdeacon, who now stood with the gypsy woman's body, a hint of desperation in his voice.
"Care for the child and raise it as your own," came the reply as the man turned back to the wooden doors of sanctuary.
"What?" Aizen practically snarled. "I'm to be saddled with this hideous misshapen –" He paused as a sudden though crept across his face. "Very well. Let him live with you, in your church."
"Live here?" the archdeacon questioned, turning slightly. "But where?"
"Anywhere. Just so he's locked away where no one else can see him," Aizen said, scanning the massive cathedral before him. The shadowy columns that housed the city's sound caught his eye. "The bell tower, perhaps." He glanced down at the baby in his arms. He spoke again, low enough so that the archdeacon would not hear. "And who knows – our Lord works in mysterious ways. Even this foul creature may yet to prove one day to be of use to me."
And so Aizen gave the child a cruel name. A name that reflected his pale skin and hair, a name that mean 'white.'
Shiro.
So, that's that.
I hope you enjoyed the fresh new start.
Here's some important things to remember:
- you can find the link to the original StB intro on my profile
- answer the poll that chooses the pairings for StB
- FEED THE AUTHOR; PLEASE REVIEW
On two separate notes, 1: updates - they will be slow; classes begin in a few weeks and will take up most of my time. I will try to do my best as possible to continue writing. The next update will be How the Hills Fill My Heart but may take longer as I'm also writing something for FictionPress.
2a: betas - I need a beta. Lily sometimes reads over what I've written, but she like me has a busy schedule. If anyone is willing to be my beta, please contact me through PM.
2b: betas - I am open for beta-reading. Please reference my beta profile for details.
Finally finished with business. Hope to see you all next chapter,
Cody Zik